Confessions of a Former L.A. Karaoke Hostess

Being a "doumi" was good money, and the men were generous, but it depended on how generous I was with what they wanted, and that's where the trouble began.

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By Leilani Zee

Dec 16, 2015

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Photo courtesy Leilani Zee

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Somewhere along the spectrum of women-dominated professions, hovering between a mid-level escort and an elementary chorus teacher, there is a doumi.

A doumi (sometimes spelled domi), in Seoul and Hong Kong, is a karaoke hostess, a woman hired by clubs to cavort and sing kitschy tunes with overworked (and often repressed) businessmen. The men use the karaoke rooms to let loose or impress potential investors, the way Americans would use a steakhouse with a craft beer bar.

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This tradition is alive in the heart of Los Angeles, though a touch shadier. Late at night in LA's Koreatown, girls file into karaoke rooms rented by men who request female company. The men, usually middle-aged Korean businessmen with lots of money but little swagger, observe the line-up, maybe ask a question or two, and either wave the girls away to see the next round, or pick their favorites to sit next to them. If a girl doesn't get picked, she moves on to the next room, or back in the car to the next club until she gets a seat. If she does get picked at all that night, she gets paid $120 for two hours, of which she keeps $80. If the men want to extend their visit with her, it's another $60 per hour, and she keeps $40 of that, plus the entire tip.

I was a doumi for my first summer in Los Angeles. It was good money, and the men were usually pretty generous, but it depended on how generous I was with what they wanted, and that's where the trouble began.

I was 26 years old and my degree in journalism was proving useless. I was certain that my six-month internship at a local newspaper was all I would need to break into publishing. After three months of interviewing and résumé-tweaking, my writing career consisted entirely of food orders at a local cafe.

Some of the girls wore Kate Middleton-esque nude pantyhose, which they called "Vagina Protectors," so they could show some leg while also warding off unwelcome stray hands.​

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I struggled between waitressing and office temping to pay for a shoebox apartment in Koreatown. The cost of living was three times as high as I was used to back in my hometown of Las Vegas, and my student loan grace period was over. After paying bills, I had $25 left to eat for the month. Asking for money from my family was not an option (I tried). Finally, in what seemed like an intervention from above, a coworker told me about her night job as a doumi, a gig she got through a Craigslist ad. She said all she did was look pretty, drink, and hang out, and she made an easy $400 a night, cash-in-hand. Getting hired was as simple as texting a few pictures to Jerry, her driver/manager. I joined her "company" and started working the next night.

My first time out, I was elated at the ease of it all. Jerry picked me up on a Wednesday night around 10 p.m. in an SUV with five other scantily-clad twentysomethings and a glove box full of parking tickets. Hungry for money and literally hungry, I looked every bit for sale in a short red dress and six inch heels.

Photo courtesy of Leilani Zee.

Jerry gave me the rules: no drugs, no sex, don't date the customers, you can leave whenever you want. The girls warned me about the dangers of the job: watch your drink, don't get drunk, beware of undercover cops. Some of them wore Kate Middleton-esque nude pantyhose, which they called "Vagina Protectors," so they could show some leg while also warding off unwelcome stray hands. This should have sent me running, but I felt my hard partying years on the Vegas strip had prepared me well for all of this. I was used to long nights in high heels and schmoozing men for drinks and a place to sit down, and figured this would be no different.

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I was not ready, however, for the hit my self-esteem would take. Driving around to different clubs, getting in and out of the car and walking through karaoke rooms tarted up only to be passed over and made to do it all again was humiliating. My first night was surprisingly comfortable, and I was lucky that I often got picked, but I did my best to have the men extend my time so I wouldn't have to circulate again. I averaged $200 a night working from 10 p.m.-2 a.m. three nights a week. I could work longer or more nights if I wanted, but I put limits on myself to avoid getting hooked on the easy money. Even though it was a little sleazy, I told myself I would only doumi for a couple of months to stabilize my income until I found a better job.

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One girl came back to the car in tears because a guy called her fat and threw a dollar at her to make her go away.​

There were many things about this job, besides the money, that made it easy to justify. I seemed to attract the inexperienced, nervous men, which made the whole thing more palatable. They were happy to sit with a pretty girl and hold a conversation, and were usually so embarrassed by the process that they over-tipped. I liked that I never had a problem getting picked for a room, unlike some of the other girls I worked with. One girl came back to the car in tears because a guy called her fat and threw a dollar at her to make her go away. Many of the girls were in their early twenties and high school educated aspiring models taking the Lindsay Lohan route through life. There were a lot of drugs and a lot of water bottles spiked with Ecstasy in the bathrooms. I tried to distance myself from the hard partying and embrace what little professionalism there was as a doumi. The men who chose me reaffirmed my snobbery, telling me that I wasn't like the other girls. I held on to this like a life raft; I was in this world but it was obvious, not just to me, that I didn't belong here.

Two months in, getting out was proving harder than I'd anticipated. Making more money hadn't changed the fact that I was still bad at managing it. Even though I was making a good amount of cash, I never seemed able to get ahead of my bills. I started shopping for outfits to wear at night for more variety, and I ate out a lot because I was too tired to cook. I also started to get greedy, staying longer hours at tables late at night and taking on extra evenings.

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It was getting harder to separate my independent, feminist self from the girl with a drunk guy's face in her lap, waiting for the clock to run out.

As I got more familiar on the weekend circuit, the clientele became more sinister and cheap. Desperation blurred my boundaries and I found myself letting little kisses or a hand on my bare thigh go by without protest in the hopes of getting a higher tip. One night, a very drunk man picked me and proceeded to grope my breasts and thighs no matter how often I pushed him off. For two hours I fought back tears and beer breath as another girl from my company looked on with sympathy but said nothing. At the end of my time, the guy gave me no tip and called me a bitch. Jerry could tell I was upset when I got in the car and asked to go straight home. He said "You can always leave if that happens, and if they don't want to pay for the time, just let me know and I'll take care of it." I knew this, but had forgotten when I was in that small room hoping for a big tip. I wanted the money, but I also felt like I deserved the hard time.

Photo courtesy Leilani Zee.

It was getting harder to separate my independent, feminist self from the girl with a drunk guy's face in her lap, waiting for the clock to run out. My fear and better judgment battled for another month before things spiraled out of control. Usually, karaoke rooms are thick with the scent of cigarettes, sweat, and spilled alcohol, but one night I found myself in one that was oddly sterile. A man approached and asked the line-up who wanted to "roll" (a.k.a take MDMA) with him and my hand shot up in the air. MDMA makes you forget you were ever having a bad time, and that's exactly what I wanted. I sat close to him and downed the capsule with straight vodka. We chatted for a bit, and another couple arrived to drink and take some MDMA before leaving for their own room. There was no singing.

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An hour later, I felt the air explode out of my chest like I had fallen out of a tree and landed on my back. The pill was way too strong, and probably laced with something speedy. I wanted to puke, cry, and lick something at the same time. When he leaned in to kiss me, I was grateful. His fat, fishy lips were a reprieve from the compulsive grinding of my jaw. He pushed me against a wall and his hands began to wander. Then I felt him touch me there.

I didn't want this to be the story of my life, some sad Lifetime movie plot line of a girl who got in too deep in, of all things, the karaoke scene.

For a moment, I saw how this could go. I could let him take me back to his place, maybe make an extra $500, and no one would have to know, except me. This would be my story to tell or keep. A story like so many others I had collected over the preceding months. But some women don't have a choice when they enter into sex work, and some women do and take pleasure in it. I was neither of those things. I had been choosing to do something I didn't enjoy, and was now at the precipice of giving myself over to it completely, but for what? Money I wasn't spending wisely or saving? A false sense of security and self-esteem? I didn't want this to be the story of my life, some sad Lifetime movie plot line of a girl who got in too deep in, of all things, the karaoke scene.

"No," I said, moving his hand away. "That's not okay." This happened a few more times and he got bored and let me wait out my time in peace. I put The Flaming Lips on the stereo and hugged myself in the middle of the empty room while he sat bored in the corner with his phone. When I got home, the drugs kept me up for nine hours grinding my teeth and shaking in my bathtub, too afraid to sleep.

Photo courtesy Leilani Zee.

I called my mom the next day and told her everything. She's not the type to smother me in sympathy, and this time was no different. I cried as she said my name over and over, like she was trying to remember the person attached to it. She thanked me for telling her, and said she loved me and forgave me for hurting her baby. She called me her baby. I felt her words like a comforting hand stroking my hair. Then she kindly suggested that I get my shit together.

I wish I could say everything changed immediately, but it took another month before I quit being a doumi. The handful of times I went out after that night weren't very lucrative. I played the part to get picked, but I was bitter and aloof and often got traded for another girl before my time was up. By summer's end, my temp agency found a placement for me as an office assistant for a small consulting company. When they decided to keep me full-time, I cried with relief and told Jerry I was done. He wished me luck and that was the end of it. Easy in, easy out...except it wasn't. I had escaped eviction and hunger, but selling myself for money did more damage than a few months of Top Ramen would have.

I had tested my limits, which is part of growing up, but they had extended so far outside of what I believed about myself that I felt lost. For a long time afterward I was scared of myself, and of the mental billy club I'd crafted to police myself from the terrible decisions I now knew I was capable of making. I'm glad to say I've moved past that phase of regret as well, and have allowed myself the many other mistakes I am sure to make while I walk this earth. If I've learned anything from this experience, it's how to move on and forgive, but I'll never let myself forget. I threw away all of the dresses I wore as a doumi, except the red one I wore that fateful night. I keep it as a souvenir of a place I never wanted to go back to, and of how far I have come. A perfectly cut red flag.